Banner by the lovely always_jbj

There will be demands forthcoming, I think. The tip of my tongue is between my blunt teeth, and I cock my head, waiting for her to speak.

“You two know each other?” Xander asks, puzzling out our strained expressions as we stare at each other and ignore him.

I wanted her – wanted this moment. She’s sweating, and her hair is much lighter than I remembered. It doesn’t suit her. Not that whiter shade of pale blonde, and not her incredibly skinny frame. She looks grown-up, yeah, but there’s too much burden on her bird-like shoulders.

Whatever I wanted from her is moot, because while she is still my beautiful, curious girl, it looks as if she’s got nothing left to give.

***

Why am I angry?

I search his face, and he’s remarkably unchanged. Despite the cool night, he’s out in just a t-shirt and jeans, and I can see the familiar tattoos. I recognize this pose – this waiting, head cocked to the side, wondering what happens next pose.

“Give us a minute?” he asks Xander, and I’m surprised that my neighbor nods and retreats.

He’ll probably be listening at his door.

Frustrated, I attempt to yank Spike into my apartment, but he won’t budge.

“Hey, now,” he interrupts. “Let’s do this civilized like. You say, why don’t you come in, Spike?”

“You’re worried about manners?”

“There are certain manners that are inescapable, love.”

I don’t get it, but I say the words. “Fine. Spike, why don’t you do me the honor of getting your ass in here?”

He extends a hand through the doorway. “Right. Good enough then.”

And then he’s in my apartment.

***

“Nice place, pet. Isn’t yours, is it?”

The house is comfortable, but something about it doesn’t bear her stamp. It’s too determinedly English, and her scent is faint. Not that I’ve ever seen any place she’s lived, but the thought that her arrival in London is recent fills me with a certain amount of relief. I’d feel a right fool if she’d been here all along.

“It’s a sublet,” she answers.

“Staying in London long?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“But you’re not here for work.”

She hesitates, but my girl has never been one to lie. “No.”

I take a seat. Her couch is a fussy floral print. “Going to offer me a cup of tea?”

She is still standing near the doorway, and now she scowls. “Don’t you have a dinner party waiting?”

“That I do. But if you’re not in London for work, and you’re not here to visit friends …” I shrug.

***

The spark in his eyes is infuriating. In seconds, he’s figured out that I’m here in London to find him.

And while I did cross an ocean to be in this room tonight, somehow it feels wrong. It feels like he’s crashing in on me instead of me going to him as a confident, mature woman.

All of a sudden, he’s here and I’m not ready.

***

This isn’t like I expect.

“Well, then. It’s nice that we’ve had this little chat. Pr’haps I should be heading across the hall to my previous engagement.”

I stand.

And then she moves. Even though she’s going at normal human speed, it takes me by surprise when she kisses me.

***

I did it on impulse, and maybe because it has been too long, far too long, since I was kissed.

Really kissed.

He responds immediately, and I’m clutching at his shoulders as his roaming hands mold me to his body.

God, he’s good at this.

***

Here’s my girl.

She’s eager, and as she leads me from her little sublet parlor into her little sublet bed, I am just as desperate for her as she is for me.

I lick her neck, laving the faint scars left from our last encounter. She shivers, and arches against me.

“You taste all salty, love.”

“Oh-” she pulls back, blushing. “Should I – I mean, I should just hop in the shower. I was running and -”

I bite back a little laugh and draw her in again. “You want to strip off and climb into the shower, I won’t object. But I’m coming in with you, yeah?”

She freezes, then nods and leads the way.

I’m a little bit surprised, but after all these years, I’m a flexible guy. She toes off her sneaks, and I’m behind her, yanking that sweatshirt over her head and undoing the drawstring on her pants.

Not to be outdone, she’s pulling my tee off, and pretty soon we’re a tangle of limbs and clothes, still trying to kiss and touch and find our balance as Buffy reaches in to start the water.

***

Do I have to tell you that this wasn’t planned?

We’re in the tiny shower, and the water is barely warmed up before he’s lifting me, and my legs wrap around his hips, and he’s thrusting inside.

Owen and I hadn’t touched since late in my pregnancy, so it’s been ages. I’m not wet enough, and he’s stretching me and it hurts. But it hurts in this delicious way, and I throw my head back, banging into the tile and gulping down a mouthful of shower water.

And then I laugh. It’s my first laugh in so, so very long. He looks at me, curious, but then senses that everything is all right. Our eyes lock and he’s watching me.

His thrusts slow. He breaks our gaze to kiss me, cataloging me, covering every bit of my skin with his surprisingly tender lips.

“Spike,” I breathe.

And then he’s bracing me again, setting a steady rhythm. I arch against him, finding that place, and I’m there. It’s been so long.

I groan and clench up around him and he meets my eyes again.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and follows me over the edge.

***

He towels me off, and I try to return the favor, but we’re stumbling and groping each other and kissing, kissing, kissing.

Then we’re falling into bed, and my wet hair is snarling and staining the borrowed pillowcases. My old, precise self worries for a split second before I remember that all that is behind me.

With a graceful gesture, he pulls me to straddle his hips, and I’m rubbing against his growing erection, then guiding him back inside of me. This time I’m wet and melting inside, and he slips home in one thrust.

It’s slow this time, and I ride him to another quiet climax. My body is as flooded as my brain, and when he comes, too, and I can roll over and curl up by his side, I’m relieved.

***

“Gonna tell me your story, pet?”

“Sorry?”

She’s curling up against me, hair still wet, head pillowed where a heartbeat oughta be. Hard to tell if she notices its absence. She doesn’t say a word.

We lay there for long minutes, long enough for me to wonder if this is a mistake, like when the little mermaid trades for legs at the price of her voice.

But my girl has her vocal chords, because after long minutes she does start to talk. “I met a guy. After – after the last time.”

I shift to my side, propping myself up on my elbow.

“He was a poet. Is a poet.”

This strikes a chord in me, but I stay silent. I’ve never told her.

“We moved to New York – he was always calling California a ‘literary wasteland.’ But it made sense for both of us. He landed this incredibly prestigious position at NYU. I started doing more commercial work. Made a lot of money. And then we got married.”

“But you didn’t have a happily ever after?” I say it mildly, but I want to kill anyone who could hurt my girl.

“At first,” she says. She takes a long pause, and I’m expecting a sordid tale of infidelity or gambling debts.

“He wanted kids,” she says finally. “And I wasn’t sure. I never – I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if I saw myself like that.”

She’s quiet, but I have a sudden sinking fear that Buffy has a passel of brats at home with the ex.

“I got pregnant. It just seemed like the thing to do. And then I miscarried.”

I shouldn’t be so relieved.

“And got pregnant again. And miscarried again.”

Her voice is surprisingly stony. I might take this as good news, but I wonder that she isn’t more tortured about the loss.

“Enter the specialists. Turns out I have a condition – a chromosomal abnormality. I can get knocked up like any drunken teenager, but there are almost always problems. Like, a three out of four chance that the – the fetus, the baby won’t be healthy. Won’t make it.”

She won’t meet my eyes.

“So we spent a fortune on IVF. Screening. Prenatal testing. And after two years, and hours and hours in clinics, I was pregnant.”

She’s starting to crack. Ah, here’s the heartache.

“In my seventh month, they detected an abnormality in my baby – my little boy’s – heart. They couldn’t tell, in utero, how serious it was. There were tests. And then a cesarean section. He was so tiny, so weak. I couldn’t even hold him, at first. He went to the NICU, and I stayed, pumping breast milk and crying and trying to pretend that I was happy. But after everything, after everything …”

I feel like a prize ass for being happy that Buffy comes to me without children. But I know how this story ends, even if I have to let her tell it.

“There were three operations. It was bad. Hugo – my baby – was worse than they thought. His heart – it just – he died after the third, after the last chance, last ditch, Hail Mary try to save my little boy.”

She dissolves into sobs, and it is long minutes of lying there, me stroking her hair and trying to feel what she feels.

I can’t muster it. My overwhelming emotion is relief that she’s not looking for me to play foster pop to some mewling brat.

“And the truth is, the worst part is, that after he died in my arms, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted him. I went back to that place I’d been before I found out I couldn’t have kids – unsure. And it feels so wrong, so awful, so eeeevil.”

She chokes back another sob and meets my eyes. “Do you think I’m bad, Spike? Do you hate me for it?”

“Hush, pet. Could never hate you. Can’t blame yourself for not feeling exactly what everyone expects you to feel.”

I gather her up, because I can handle morose and sulking, depressed and confused. But if she had been aching to start all over again, to mother a babe of her own?

I’d have to exit stage left.

“I cried all over you.”

“Gave me a good seein’ to first, so I s’pose I’m alright with that.”

She smiles. I extricate myself from her bedding and stumble to my jeans.

“I should go apologize to my host. Here’s where to find me. Tomorrow, around sunset, yeah?”

I leave a card for Minus Zero on her nightstand and head across the hall, boots in hand, to deal with the fallout.


Author's Note: Minus Zero is a real place, but not one that I've ever visited. I'm taking, um, artistic liberties.